(American poet and novelist; born 1882)
Over his face his gray hair drifting hides his Labor-glory in smoke,
Strange through his breath the soot is sifting, his feet are buried in coal and coke.
By night hands twisted and lurid in fires, by day hands blackened with grime and oil,
He toils at the foundries and never tires, and ever and ever his lot is toil.
He speeds his soul till his body wrestles with terrible tonnage and terrible time,
Out through the yards and over the trestles the flat-cars clank and the engines chime,
His mills through windows seem eaten with fire, his high cranes travel, his ingots roll,
And billet and wheel and whistle and wire shriek with the speeding up of his soul.
Lanterns with reds and greens a-glisten wave the way and the head-light glares,